


it's a love story, baby, just say yes

by seventhstar



Series: if you wanna i might 'verse [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Moving In Together, Post-Canon, Supportive Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 06:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12315486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: “Oh,” Yuuri says.I’m dying,he thinks. His paltry collection of medals and trophies, in the same case as Viktor Nikiforov’s five Grand Prix gold medals and his five World Championship gold medals and his Olympic gold medals and oh god, he’s not going to think about the fact he still hasn’t won a gold medal for him yet. He’s not. (He is.)+After the Grand Prix Final, Yuuri moves to St. Petersburg. He's terrified.





	it's a love story, baby, just say yes

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this forever and it's finally d o n e. the timeline is wonky as fuck, i know, i know.

There is a brief, perfect period after the final where Yuuri is incapable of unhappiness.

He and Viktor are like two intertwined strands of seaweed, floating in and out on the tide. Things are happening around him, but Yuuri barely remembers any of them: the congratulations of his fellow skaters, the warmth of the shower as he gets ready for the banquet, the taste of the food he eats, whatever he says to sponsors that makes them go away smiling. All Yuuri remembers is Viktor: straightening his tie for him, hand feeding him, unzipping his costume, holding his hand in the elevator, looking at him and no one else. 

Viktor lies shamelessly to everyone at the banquet about how Yuuri is just exhausted, really, he can't stay another minute, and Yuuri, with an equal lack of shame, agrees with him. Everyone is smirking at them as they leave early, arm in arm, but Yuuri doesn't care. Viktor is his, Viktor is staying with him somehow, Viktor is here with him. No one else can be as happy as he is right now. He congratulates Yurio earnestly on his win on his way out the door and barely suppresses a laugh at his outraged expression.

They stand too close in the elevator as Yuuri watches the floor numbers tick up. When the doors open he nearly trips rushing out, and Viktor looks as breathless as he feels. The dreamlike quality of the evening is sharpening into reality the longer he and Viktor are alone together. Yuuri is sweating. This is happening.

It takes both of them to get the door to the hotel room open.

The moment the door closes, Victor's phone starts ringing. He answers it, and as he chatters away in Russian with whoever's on the line, back turned to Yuuri, Yuuri comes to a decision.

They haven’t had sex yet. It was too soon at the Cup of China, and then Makkachin was ill during the Rostelecom Cup, and they’d quarreled last night, and there was no way anything was happening in his childhood bedroom, and Yuuri has always been afraid. It’s one thing to seduce Viktor on the ice, to offer him a fantasy Yuuri filled with Eros for the length of a program. It’s another thing to seduce Viktor off the ice, in his body that he has never been quite comfortable with.

But right now Yuuri feels the same buzz under his skin he gets when he’s performing. Tonight he’s fantasy Yuuri, not the slightly insecure Yuuri who still pinches his hips in the mirror before he showers.

He undoes his tie and lets it fall to the floor; he slips out of his jacket. His shirt lands silently on the carpet, and he toes off his shoes with no regard for the leather. He unbuckles his belt. It's harder to get out of his pants quietly, but he manages it. Yuuri barely recognizes his reflection in the mirror He looks too good to be the Katsuki Yuuri he's always been.

"What terrible timing," Viktor says. He ends the call, sighing. He turns around, phone in hand. "Now then—"

He stops. The phone hits the ground. Yuuri comes closer, closer, closer, until he can see the tiny smear of mascara at the corner of Viktor's left eye.

"Touch me.”

Viktor touches him. His fingers brush over Yuuri's shoulders, down his chest and across his ribs, until his hands settle around his waist. His fingers are cold; his fingers are always cold. Yuuri imagines a lifetime of winters enduring Viktor's icy touch, imagines a lifetime of cupping his cold fingers between his hands.

"My pretty Yuuri," Viktor murmurs.

"Viktor..." Praise from Viktor always goes straight to Yuuri’s head.

"You won a medal today.” His thumbs press into Yuuri's skin. "I'm very proud of you."

He pulls Yuuri flush against him. His skin is tingling everywhere they’re touching—too much, not enough—and Viktor leans in and rests his forehead against Yuuri’s. Yuuri grabs at him inelegantly. He feels the contours of Viktor’s back, the slopes of his shoulders; he presses a hand against the side of his neck to feel his racing pulse. He’s wanted to touch Viktor so much; he doesn’t know what to do now that he _can._

They stare at each other, lips parted.

Yuuri loses himself in the blue of Viktor’s eyes, and his words come out unfiltered.

"It wasn’t gold,” he says. “But you still love me."

"I do," Viktor whispers, and then he catches Yuuri by the arms and pushes him backwards until his knees hit the bed. Yuuri sprawls himself out across the mattress, breathless, calves dangling off the end. Viktor bends over him, and his bangs brush Yuuri's face as they kiss.

His hands press Yuuri into the sheets as he kisses Yuuri's mouth, tongue caught against his, and then trails wet, open-mouthed kisses along Yuuri's jaw. He kisses Yuuri's neck, and Yuuri clings to the back of Viktor's suit jacket as his mouth slides hotly into the hollow of his throat.

"Yes?"

"Yes," Yuuri says, as insistently as he can.

Viktor laughs. He drags his nails over Yuuri's nipples and nuzzles Yuuri's chest. He kisses Yuuri everywhere—in a line down his chest, all over the stomach Yuuri has forgotten to be self-conscious of, lightly on a lingering bruise on his hip—until his mouth runs into the waistband of Yuuri's boxers. Yuuri’s skin is burning with desire. Viktor mouths at the fine trail of dark hair under his navel. 

“No one's ever sucked me off before.”

"My poor, deprived, Yuuri," Viktor says, entirely (probably) serious, and he slips a hand under Yuuri's back and lifts him up enough to get his boxers off.

Yuuri stares at the ceiling for a moment, trying to get his bearings, and when he looks back at Viktor he's down on his knees between Yuuri's legs. He puts the hand with the ring on Yuuri's thigh and wraps the other around Yuuri's cock and Yuuri digs his fingers into the sheets in surprise.

He strokes Yuuri once, twice, thrice, palm soft against him. His grip is so unlike Yuuri’s own. He bends his head and touches his tongue to the tip of Yuuri's cock. Yuuri feels the shock of it all the way up his spine.

"Viktor, please." 

Viktor takes the head of his cock in his mouth and starts sucking in earnest. His mouth is warm, and his tongue is slick as it presses against the sensitive underside of his cock. He slides Yuuri deeper and deeper into his mouth, slowly.  Yuuri shuts his eyes, overcome with pleasure, and listens to the soft liquid sound of Viktor's mouth on him. He tries to keep still, but can’t; his hips jerk up against Viktor’s mouth.

Somehow his hand catches Viktor's where it's resting on his thigh, and their fingers link together.

He wants to open his eyes and watch, and can’t. Viktor down on his knees, his free hand pressed into the groove between thigh and groin, the tips of his nails dug into Yuuri’s skin, his engagement ring warm against Yuuri’s fingers, it’s hotter than any fantasy Yuuri has ever dared to have.

He digs a hand into Viktor’s soft hair and pushes his head down, and Viktor's nose touches the dark hair around the base of his cock, and the hot, wet pressure of Viktor's mouth, the suction of his throat, is too much.

Viktor’s grip tightens on Yuuri’s hand.

Yuuri gives it up. He sees stars when he comes, trembling.

He looks down between his parted thighs. Viktor is swallowing, come dripping from the corner of his mouth, and he lifts his head to look up at Yuuri. There's come smeared along Yuuri's cock, and Viktor laps it up slowly. Yuuri props himself up on his elbows and follows the movement of that soft pink tongue with wide eyes.

“Did you like that?” Viktor asks. He licks his lips and draws circles on Yuuri’s leg with his thumb. “Was it as good as you imagined?”

“Better.”

Viktor smirks. Yuuri sits all the way up, and looks down, and oh. Viktor is still obviously hard. And fully dressed. That’s unacceptable.

“Get up here and kiss me,” he says.

He’s shoved back onto the bed before he knows it, Viktor on top of him with their mouths locked together, and Yuuri licks into Viktor’s mouth and catches him around the waist and flips them over so that he’s between Viktor’s spread thighs.

They make out, messily, as Yuuri undoes Viktor’s stupidly complicated tie knot, pushes his jacket off his shoulders, fumbles with the nine thousand buttons on Viktor’s shirt and vest. It’s slow going, because Yuuri can’t get his hands to work, and also because he can’t kiss Viktor and undress him at the same time, and not kissing Viktor is suddenly unbearable.

Viktor’s thighs are locked around him as he pulls away from Viktor’s mouth, licks at the exposed skin of Viktor’s neck, as he gives up on buttons and rips his shirt open. Viktor’s hands are on him still, gripping his hair and running down his spine and hauling him closer whenever he gets too far away for Viktor’s liking.

Yuuri actually groans aloud when he gets Viktor out of his shirt and discovers he’s wearing an undershirt.

“You’re torturing me.”

 _“I’m_ torturing _you?”_ Viktor asks as he pulls the undershirt over his head and throws it off the bed. He pushes Yuuri up so that he can unbuckle his own belt. “I’ve been watching you skate Eros for months—”

“It was for you, it was always for you,” Yuuri says as he yanks off Viktor’s pants. “You’re the one who’s always naked, do you know what it was like, being in the onsen with you every night and not touching you—”

Viktor isn’t wearing underwear. Yuuri’s brain short-circuits briefly at the sight of his reddened, hard cock; at the precome smeared around the tip; at the indisputable proof that he is sexually attractive to Viktor Nikiforov.

“You could have touched me.” Viktor takes his hands and tugs him down on top of him, so that their faces are only inches apart again. “I’ve wanted you since the banquet.”

“I didn’t know,” Yuuri whispers. He touches Viktor’s face, runs his thumb over Viktor’s perfect cheekbone. “Can I have you now?”

“Yes, anything you want.”

Yuuri is overwhelmed for a moment by the magnitude of that offer. Viktor, in all his glory, hair mussed, with a long white scar on his stomach Yuuri is pretty sure he covers up with makeup during competitions, mouth soft and red from being kissed too much, is all his. He is too lovely to be real and too flawed to be a fantasy and Yuuri wants so many things he can’t breathe.

He sucks in air, keeps himself in the moment. He squeezes Viktor’s thigh.

“Stay right there,” he says. “I…I, uh…”

“There’s lube in my bag,” Viktor says lazily. “If you need ideas.”

Yuuri scrambles off the bed.

Viktor has an entire bottle of lube in his luggage. It’s pink. Yuuri drops it between Viktor’s legs as he gets back up onto the bed.

Normally he would be able to get it up again, but—it’s been a long, long weekend—that doesn’t matter. Yuuri swallows down the fear of inadequacy and focuses on Viktor’s body.

He pops open the cap and slicks up his fingers.

He kneels between Viktor’s legs, which are spread obscenely wide. His knees are bent; Yuuri can see the old scars on his shins, his feet. Viktor’s hand is on his stomach, fingers flexing like he can’t decide whether to touch himself or not. Yuuri wraps a hand around his cock. He strokes Viktor slowly, running his thumb over the tip, and Viktor covers his hand with his own.

He lets his other hand slide underneath Viktor.

Yuuri has never actually done _this_ before. It’s scary; he’s always let himself be topped with previous partners because it’s less work. He wants to take care of Viktor, though, wants to prove to himself he’s capable of taking him apart.

Viktor sighs, as Yuuri circles his entrance with a fingertip, and so he keeps going—softer, then harder—until he finally pushes his finger in, just to the first joint.

“You’re so warm.” His finger slips all the way inside. He works Viktor open gently, fisting his cock with his other hand, watching the blush on Viktor’s face spread down his neck and chest.

Viktor clutches at the sheets with his free hand and moans, “Yuuri.” His name sounds filthy coming out of Viktor’s mouth.

Emboldened, Yuuri adds more lube and fits both his index and middle fingers in. Viktor is hot inside, and he squirms prettily as Yuuri wiggles his fingers inside him, testing to see what he likes. Yuuri can tell when he gets it right, because Viktor’s hips lift up off of the bed and he digs his heels into the mattress trying to fuck himself on Yuuri’s fingers. Yuuri can see all of Viktor’s perfectly chiseled muscles straining, whatever composure he had gone.

Yuuri has to stop jerking him off so he can hold him down. He presses his forearm down against Viktor’s stomach, not hard, really, just enough to make Viktor feel it. Viktor wraps his fingers around Yuuri’s wrist, blunt nails digging into his skin.

“Yuuri—darling—please.”

“Say that again,” Yuuri says, drunk on the sound of how needy Viktor is.

Viktor looks at him, pupils blown, lips wet.

“Please.”

Yuuri ducks his head and mouths, sloppily, at the side of his cock. He can taste the precome there, salty on his tongue, and he licks it away from the tip where Viktor is leaking. He adds another finger, watches his ring disappear; he crooks his fingers deep inside Viktor. He’s clenching around Yuuri’s fingers, the rim of his hole twitching.

Viktor bites back a cry, the muscles of his abdomen clenching under Yuuri’s arm, and Yuuri shoves a third finger in and fucks Viktor hard enough that he slides back on the sheets towards the wall behind him. He spreads his fingers inside him, imagines how it would feel to bury his cock in him and take him until he screamed.

Viktor’s nails scratch stinging lines into the back of Yuuri’s shoulder as he comes all over Yuuri’s mouth.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand as Viktor collapses against the bed, disheveled and sweaty. He doesn’t protest as Yuuri crawls on top of him to bury his face in the crook of his neck, and flop heavily over his torso. Viktor’s hand cradles the back of Yuuri’s head.

“Worth waiting eight months?” He can taste the sweat on Viktor’s skin as he talks.

“Yes,” Viktor says, sounding thoroughly satisfied.

They lie there for what feels like an eternity. Viktor smells good. Yuuri is only dimly aware of his own thoughts; he feels like he’s melted, like his body is as much Viktor’s as it is his own. Viktor’s heart is steady in his chest. Yuuri loves him so much.

Finally the cold and the stickiness forces them apart. Yuuri tries, awkwardly, to offer to get Viktor a towel, but Viktor pushes him down onto the bed and goes into the bathroom. He returns with two towels, one wet and one dry, a water bottle, and both of their pajamas.

Yuuri cleans himself up and throws everything on the floor; the Yuuri of tomorrow can assume responsibility. The Yuuri of right now just remembered that he competed in an international competition and has been training nonstop for months and just had sex with Viktor Nikiforov and now needs to sleep.

“Who was on the phone?”

“Hmm?” Viktor asks sleepily. He’s getting into bed after having picked up all their clothes off of the floor, which Yuuri thinks is hilarious.

“When you were on the phone, _ignoring_ me while I took my clothes off.”

“Ha.” The mattress dips as Viktor settles in behind him. Yuuri scoots backwards until they’re touching. “It was Yakov, yelling at me about how he won’t go easy on me if I return.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll be less of a slavedriver with him breathing down your neck.”

“Where do you think _I_ learned it from?”

Yuuri can’t stop smiling, even though he knows he needs to sleep and even though his face actually hurts. He was worried about Yakov and Viktor’s relationship when they were at the Rostelecom Cup, but Viktor sounds fond enough, and Yakov must care if he bothered to call him. Not that any coach in the world could turn down getting to work with Viktor Nikiforov.

“My beautiful darling,” Viktor murmurs. He holds Yuuri tightly from behind; Yuuri folds his arms over Viktor’s. “Come with me to Russia.”

“What?”

“I want you to come live with me in St. Petersburg.”

Yuuri nods. He swallows. “O-okay.”

“Wonderful,” Viktor says. He kisses the back of Yuuri’s head, and then stills. Yuuri lies there awake as Viktor’s breathing slows and steadies.

He is perfectly, incandescently happy.

For about five minutes.

Then he starts thinking about all the things that could go wrong, and he stops smiling.  He lies there awake long after Viktor starts snoring against his hair.

 

\+ + +

 

Before he knows it, Yuuri is back in Hasetsu. Viktor has gone on ahead to St. Petersburg to get things ready for Yuuri’s arrival; he tried to convince Yuuri to let him come back to Japan, but Yuuri wouldn’t let him. There is too much to be done. He only has two weeks before he’s planning to fly out.

Yuuri’s packed up his life to move to another country before. He tells himself, as he drives back to Hasetsu with a trunk full of cardboard boxes, that this will be no different.

His room in Detroit was in a rental house owned by the skater’s club, situated between campus and the rink. It was an old home, obviously worn from all the skaters who had lived there before. There were communal appliances, dishes, and cutlery; there were established rules for residents from the club; there was no sense of permanence. It was a transient place, a halfway house between Hasetsu and real life. Even settled with Phichit, hanging out with him in the dead of night in a bed full of popcorn and hamsters, Yuuri caught himself calling it “the room”, not “my room”. His room was back in Japan.

 _His_ room is mostly filled with junk.

There are two piles of clothing, things Yuuri is taking with him to Russia and things he’s too embarrassed to be seen in. The latter pile is twice the size of the former, because Yuuri keeps imagining himself at Viktor’s rink in his too-tight track pants or his sweatpants that have JUICY in gold glitter on the butt.

Viktor calls. Yuuri doesn’t answer. Eventually he deletes all the text notifications and only reads the terse email Viktor has sent with printable prepaid shipping labels attached.

He’s already packed his skating equipment and the brand new winter things he’d reluctantly let his parents buy him. Beyond that, there’s not much else he needs. Viktor has lived in his apartment for ten years, after all, and must own all the necessities. Really, Yuuri thinks, he should take as little as possible so he doesn’t crowd Viktor’s apartment with his junk.

“I hope you and Vicchan end up settled somewhere closer than Russia,” his mother says as she helps him fold his clothes. Mari is in the banquet room, packing up Viktor’s things. The moving company is going to be here tomorrow to ship everything to Russia—Viktor insisted on paying for everything—so the packing has to be done immediately.

(He is not taking any of his Viktor Nikiforov memorabilia. No matter how many times Viktor offers to autograph them for him. No. Not happening.)

(Okay, maybe the one poster.)

Also, Yuuri is beginning to be alarmed by how easily everyone has accepted the idea of his and Viktor’s engagement. People are practically treating them like a married couple already, and they’ve known each other less than a year.

It is going to be unbearable if Viktor ever leaves him, and not just because Yuuri knows it’ll smash his glass heart irreparably.

“Oh, how should we pack your medals, dear?” his mother asks.

Yuuri chokes on nothing. “What?”

“Vicchan called and asked us to make sure they reached him safely. He says he’s making room in his display case for them!”

“Oh,” Yuuri says. _I’m dying,_ he thinks. His paltry collection of medals and trophies, in the same case as Viktor Nikiforov’s five Grand Prix gold medals and his five World Championship gold medals and his Olympic gold medals and oh god, he’s not going to think about the fact he still hasn’t won a gold medal for him yet. He’s not. (He is.)

(Did Viktor mean it when he said he’d marry Yuuri if he won a gold medal? Was that a way of turning “we’re engaged” into a joke?)

“Don’t you and Dad want to keep them? You know, for the inn?”

“Oh, no. Those are yours! We want you to have them to show off.”

“Right,” Yuuri says. He is one hundred percent sure that as long as he is beside Viktor, he will never need to show off anything. He’ll be too embarrassed by the gap between them, and in the back of his mind, he suspects Viktor will probably brag about him double to make up for it.

 _He means well,_ Yuuri reminds himself, yet again, as he does whenever the thought of living with Viktor makes him want to throw up.

The medals and trophies are packed in bubblewrap, then in Yuuri’s most worn out sweats and tees. Yuuri tapes up the carton and labels it “stuff”.

It goes with the growing stack of boxes in the front room. Yuuri goes to bed in his childhood bedroom, emptied of every sign of the nineteen years he’s lived there, and when he wakes up the moving company’s truck is parked outside and being loaded.

He watches the contents of his life vanish around the corner, and swallows heavily.

 

\+ + +

 

“Oh, god,” Yuuri says, after he’s ignored yet another one of Viktor’s calls. He wishes Viktor would stop calling so that Yuuri wouldn’t have to feel bad about ignoring him. A seagull cries out overhead in solidarity. Yuuri makes an executive decision: it’s time to do ballet until he stops panicking or progresses from panicking to full-on freaking out. Whichever comes first.

Later, doing ballet at three am and trying not to think about the fact that he’s twenty-four and has never lived with a romantic partner, he gets an Instagram notification. It’s Viktor.

_v-nikiforov_

_[image.jpg]_

_Can’t wait to see my beloved @yuuri-katsuki <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 #cleaning #imsohappy_

Yuuri touches the line of hearts beside his name. He stares at the image of Viktor wiping down a counter and smiling at the camera, and swallows heavily. He likes the post, before he can lose his nerve.

Viktor loves him, of course. Yuuri loves Viktor, of course. They’re going to be fine, or so everyone keeps telling him. It was fine when Viktor was here, in Hasetsu, in Yuuri’s home. This was Yuuri’s place, filled with places for him to hide, tinged with all the comforts of childhood. Viktor is the kind of person who fits in everywhere, who would be accepted anywhere as long as he exerted his bottomless charm.

Yuuri isn’t like that. He can’t fit himself into new places easily. He gets anxious with change. He almost doesn’t want to go, because he can see clear as day how many things might go wrong. He might offend his new rinkmates. He might ruin Viktor’s comeback. He might be a terrible roommate. He might completely bomb at Nationals again. He might make Viktor fall out of love with him; it could happen. He barely knows how he managed to make Viktor fall in love with him in the first place.

He might go to St. Petersburg, and hate it, and be stuck there.

He would not go, would risk it, except that Hasetsu is irrevocably colored with memories of Viktor now, and Yuuri sees and hears his phantom everywhere he goes. He wants Viktor to hold him, kiss him, skate with him, whine at him until he comes to bed, eat with him, fuck him. Viktor has ruined Hasetsu for him.

So Yuuri books his flight to Russia as soon as Viktor confirms his paperwork has gone through. He spends his days at the rink and his nights working out or dancing. He turns off push notifications on his phone because Viktor keeps calling him and texting him and emailing him and mentioning him in the captions of his Instagram posts. On his last night in Japan, he eats katsudon with his family and Minako and the Nishigoris, and he makes himself smile and laugh like everything is okay.

It’s not.

 

\+ + +

 

It’s a full day’s travel from Hasetsu to St. Petersburg. Yuuri doesn’t sleep a wink. He drinks five cups of complimentary coffee and one glass of complimentary champagne, because Viktor upgraded him to first class without telling him and the shock of being ushered into a comfortable leather seat, surrounded by well-dressed business people while he’s wearing his comfiest, rattiest sweats, requires liquid courage. By the time he staggers off the plane at the airport in Russia, he’s loopy with exhaustion.

He regrets this decision more with every passing second.

Yakov sent him a terse email informing him of the arrangements he needs to make to access the rink; at the end, he added that Viktor was not allowed to skip practice to pick him up and that there would be a car waiting for him at the airport.

Yuuri has no idea how he’s going to find this car. Presumably Yakov will have told the driver they’re picking up a man, Japanese, one hundred and seventy three centimeters tall, looks terrified.

His luggage is heavy, and his coat is in one of his bags but he’s not sure which one, and he can see snow falling heavily outside the windows. Yuuri debates going outside and awkwardly eying all the cars lined up at the curb, hoping one of them will recognize him, or just waiting inside the airport until he withers up and dies.

“Yuuri!”

Viktor attacks him from behind, and Yuuri yelps as he’s crushed against Viktor’s chest. The snow on Viktor’s coat ends up soaked into his sweatshirt. Viktor is talking, a stream of happy nonsense about how much he missed Yuuri.

He looks put together but not up to his usual standard, like maybe he got ready in a hurry. He’s still so beautiful Yuuri can hardly bear it. His relentless cheer grates on Yuuri’s travel-worn nerves.

_Doesn’t Viktor ever worry about anything?_

“Hi,” Yuuri manages, and then he pries Viktor off. At the sight of Viktor’s pained expression, he adds, “I’m really tired.”

“Of course you are.” Viktor drapes his coat over Yuuri’s shoulders and takes his luggage. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

Viktor leads him to his car—black and shiny, because of course it is—and Yuuri sits in the passenger seat while Viktor manhandles the luggage into the trunk. He feels out of place; his parent’s car is twenty years old and rattles alarmingly. Most people in Hasetsu don’t have cars, and the few that do share them indiscriminately. But that’s right, Viktor is rich and extravagant, so much so that he can forgo a coaching fee and pay to have all of Yuuri’s belongings shipped express to another continent without batting an eye.

 _Must be nice,_ Yuuri thinks, and then immediately feels ashamed for the bitter turn of his thoughts. Viktor is trying to do something nice for him.

It occurs to Yuuri that if he wants to stay on track with his training, he’ll have to get his things unpacked tonight so that he can start at the rink tomorrow. The thought fills him with dread; he hates unpacking. He hates the idea of having to agonize over every single of his possessions while Viktor pokes fun at his cheap formalwear. He doesn’t say a word while Viktor drives him to the apartment.

“Yuuri, are you all right?”

“Yakov said you couldn’t miss practice today.”

“Yakov has no romance in his soul,” Viktor replies. “I wanted to see you. It’s been so long.” _You didn’t answer any of my calls or texts,_ he doesn’t say, but Yuuri reads it in the wrinkle in his forehead.

Yuuri squirms.

“I was only gone two weeks.”

“It felt like years.”

 _It felt like minutes,_ Yuuri thinks, but he says nothing. Viktor is already missing practice. That’ll be a great impression to make on Yakov tomorrow; Yuuri’s very presence in Russia is a distraction. Viktor needs every second in the rink if he’s going to compete properly, but of course he has absolute confidence and never worries. Yuuri is the one stuck wondering if Viktor’s failure will be blamed on him (it will), if he’ll blame himself (he already does), if Viktor will be mad at him (probably).

He can’t sit still. Viktor eyes his bouncing knees as he slows, turns into the garage, and parks.

“Yuuri—”

“Let’s just go upstairs.” Yuuri scrambles to get out of the car. “I’m cold.”

The apartment is on the top floor of the building. The elevator seems to move at lightning speed; Yuuri’s stomach lurches as it slows to a stop and the doors slide open. Viktor produces a bright blue lanyard with a set of keys dangling from it and drapes it around Yuuri’s neck with all the pomp and ceremony of a gold medal.

“These are yours,” he says. He’s smiling.

Yuuri tries to get his face to cooperate, but he can’t manage more than a grimace. The keys around his neck feel like a lead weight. Viktor winces again. He fumbles out another lanyard, this one bright pink, and uses the attached keys to open the front door.

Yuuri stands there in the living room, looking around, while Viktor drags his bags into the bedroom. Makkachin runs into Yuuri’s legs, and Yuuri kneels mechanically to cuddle her while he freaks out.

Everything is clean. Yuuri, raised in an inn where he was often charged with housekeeping, after living for five years in a shared household with a rotating list of chores, could never dream of keeping his living space this neat. There is nothing on the floor or on the furniture that doesn’t belong: no books, no dog toys, no discarded outerwear. The floor shines. There is an entire wall of bookshelves filled with books. Viktor’s medal case is gleaming brightly in the light from the windows, every shelf piled with gold, not a single fingerprint on the glass.

Yuuri recalls Viktor’s spotless makeshift bedroom in Yu-topia and almost cries.

“Make yourself at home. I made lunch!” Viktor tries to hug him again, telegraphing his movements this time. Yuuri dodges.

“I’m not hungry.”

The idea of sitting through a meal with Viktor right now is too much. Yuuri needs a minute, or several, to just think. To look around. To figure out where all his stuff is, because he doesn’t see any of the boxes that were supposed to have arrived by now. He needs to get a hold of himself. He thought it would be fine, before; he needs to reclaim that feeling.

He can’t do it with Viktor here. He can’t pretend to share in Viktor’s obvious joy. He missed Viktor so much it hurt, but right now all he feels is a dull terror.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, maybe we can—”

“It’s fine.”

Viktor is unhappy. Yuuri’s heart twists at his expression, but—if he would just leave and let Yuuri recalibrate himself—Yuuri can explain it all to him later. Later. Not now. Viktor should know better, anyway. He knows Yuuri gets anxious. He needs to stop crowding him.

“You don’t look happy to see me at all,” Viktor says. He laughs a humorless laugh.

Yuuri closes his eyes. “You should go back to practice. You can’t afford to miss it this close to Nationals.”

With his eyes shut, he doesn’t have to see Viktor’s face.

“…right.” Viktor says.

Yuuri watches him wear his fake smile as he points out where the food in the fridge is and bundles himself into his coat and scarf. When Viktor finally leaves, skate bag in hand, Yuuri sighs heavily and allows himself to flop onto the couch. The leather is buttery and the cushions are soft, and Makkachin jumps onto him and starts licking him.

Finally.

Now that he’s alone, Yuuri does feel hungry, although whether he actually needs food or if that’s just how his anxiety is manifesting itself right now, he can’t tell. He goes into the kitchen and pokes around. It’s well-stocked, contains mostly things that Viktor’s nutritionist would approve off, and has a carton of Yuuri’s favorite tea and a Japanese cookbook that, when Yuuri flips through, contains a handwritten recipe for katsudon in Mari’s crooked handwriting tucked between the pages.

Yuuri makes a cup of tea, and then gives up and snags a pint of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer, pops it open, and digs in with a spoon.

Then he feels vaguely guilty and serves himself what is probably too much ice cream in a bowl, instead.

This is his new home, he tells himself. He has to get it together somehow before Viktor gets back, so that they can at least pretend things are normal. He might as well take a look around.

The first door in the hallway is a linen closet. There’s plenty of room, although Yuuri didn’t bring any linens. The next door is what must be a spare room; it mostly contains various dog paraphernalia and skating equipment. The third door is the bedroom. It’s as Yuuri expected: an enormous bed, an entire wall of windows, a dresser and a desk, and two doors that lead into a palatial bathroom and a ridiculous walk-in closet, respectively. It’s more luxurious than anywhere Yuuri has ever lived.

He wonders what Viktor did with his medals.

Slowly, he goes to the medal case. It’s a tall, with velvet-lined shelves, each with a tiny label marking the year. His heart in his mouth, Yuuri checks the year he won his first medal.

There it is. Bronze. Right alongside all Viktor’s medals from that year. He glances all the way up, at the topmost occupied shelf, labeled 2016-2017, and sure enough, Yuuri’s silver Cup of China medal and his silver Grand Prix Final medal are shining brightly.

From far away, Yuuri can’t tell which medals are his, which medals are Viktor’s.

All of Yuuri’s possessions have been unpacked; he finds his clothes in the closet, his anti-anxiety meds in the bathroom, his framed photograph of Viktor on the dresser. It’s been autographed.

Other than the single photograph of Viktor Yuuri brought with him, Yuuri realizes, there are no other photographs in the apartment. No pictures of Viktor. No pictures of his friends or family. No pictures of Makkachin, even.

Yuuri swallows, and looks around the bedroom again with fresh eyes.

It’s neat. It’s almost too neat—there’s nothing personal about it. Yuuri pokes through the bedside table and finds a phone charge, lube, a box of condoms with a receipt dated for yesterday. He checks the dresser; stacks of identical exercise shirts and pants, grey and black.

He looks through the desk, and finds Viktor’s planner in the top drawer, a leatherbound book. It’s last years. Yuuri opens it up, tells himself it’s not snooping if he lives here now, and reads the first page.

Yuuri is better at reading Russian than he is at speaking it—oral exams make him nervous, but Cyrillic is just about practice. Viktor’s schedule is packed. The days with competitions are marked in red; the other days are jammed with rink time and cross training and doctor’s appointments and meetings with his agent. Yuuri flips through January, February, March. Even Viktor’s rest days are marked with tasks to complete, notes on music he needs commissioned or phone calls he needs to make.

He skips ahead to December. Viktor’s marked his own birthday as a competition day, with flight times and numbers carefully inked in. But there’s no time blocked off for a celebration.

In all the panic about moving to Russia, Yuuri completely forgot about Viktor’s upcoming birthday. He hasn’t bought a gift.

If Viktor’s current schedule is anything like his past one, he must be pushing himself to the limit—and it must be, because he’s coming back after a year off the ice. But he’s made time to call Yuuri, and text Yuuri, and unpack all Yuuri’s possessions.

Only to be rewarded with his fiance being an asshole.

Yuuri swallows. His stomach is heavy with guilt as he recalls Viktor’s plastic expression earlier. It’s been less than one day in Russia and Yuuri has already managed to screw up his relationship.

 _This was a mistake,_ Yuuri thinks. _Maybe I should—_

He looks down at the planner again.

Is he really going to leave Viktor alone?

Is he really going to run away?

 _You thought your career was over,_ Yuuri decides. _And you were wrong about that. Maybe you’re wrong about this, too._

“Fuck,” Yuuri says aloud. Makkachin butts at his legs with her furry head, and he bends down to cuddle her. “Hey, girl, wanna go for a walk?”

 

\+ + +

 

The Yubileyny Sports Palace is terrifying.

Yuuri, Makkachin’s leash in hand, has to stop outside the front doors and take several deep breaths. He knows rationally it’s just a rink, and Viktor has told him any number of wild stories about it that should ease his terror, but he can’t help it.

He was hoping to avoid having to appear at the rink until he was in training mode and ready to make a good impression, and instead he’s here wild-eyed, with caffeine jitters and a nagging sense of guilt, wearing the stupid sweatpants that say JUICY on them.

So he’s going to appear like this. In front of all his new rinkmates. In front of Yakov Feltsman, who is the closest thing to a father-in-law Yuuri has. In front of all the rink staff, who are no doubt going to wonder who that strange, deranged-looking Japanese man is, wandering around the rink with Viktor’s dog.

 _This is fine,_ he tells himself. _Eventually you would have fucked up, so let’s just get it over with._

He enters.

A staff member takes Makkachin’s leash from him without a word; Viktor must bring her to rink once in a while. Yuuri stares at the ground as he walks, avoiding the faces of the people he passes. He can’t lose his nerve until he sees Viktor. He reaches the rink, and the familiar smell of ice soothes him. People are yelling, skaters are practicing or stretching rinkside; if the rinkmates, location, and language have all changed, the rhythm of the rink has not. If Yuuri closes his eyes and just lets the noise wash over him, he could be back in Detroit.

He looks up.

Viktor is on the ice. He’s working through what must be his new programs—programs, Yuuri realizes, that he has not asked Viktor about yet—as Yakov screams at him. Yuuri watches him go in for a jump and holds his breath, waiting.

(”It’s amazing that you learned so many quads,” Yuuri said once. “I wish I could do that.”

Viktor laughed. “I did it because I love jumping.” He tapped Yuuri on the nose, giving him his sternest coaching expression. Even Viktor’s sternest expression is a little fond. “You should focus on the parts of skating you like best, too. If you enjoy yourself, the audience will respond better.”)

Viktor jumps—turns—pops it—falls heavily onto the ice with a crash.

“Viktor!” Yuuri is rushing to the boards in an instant. He almost runs right out onto the ice, and even then, only stops because Georgi latches onto his arm to stop him. Yuuri struggles, as he watches Viktor get up. He moves a little stiffly, but he is able to skate himself off the ice without any visible difficulty.

His eyes widen when he sees Yuuri, and Yuuri can practically see him rearranging his expression to cover up whatever he’s thinking. His ears are red, and he’s sweaty, and he’s wearing the same practice clothes he wore in Hasetsu. He comes to a stop at the gate, and they stare at each other.

“Viktor, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Viktor tells Yakov. Yuuri sees Viktor’s skate guards and wordlessly offers them to him. Viktor puts them on, and says, “We can talk over there, it’s busy today. We won’t be overheard.”

After seeing Viktor land on the ice, Yuuri doesn’t really care if the entire rink hears him flagellating himself for his idiocy, but he lets Viktor lead him over to an empty place in the bleachers. Viktor drinks heavily from his water bottle, and dabs at his mouth with a tissue he pulls from his pants pocket.

“Yuuri, I—”

“Viktor, I—”

Both of them stop. Yuuri starts to speak again, and then shakes his head; he wants to hear what Viktor has to say first. If he’s mad, and he has every right to be, Yuuri wants to get it over with. He gestures for Viktor to go ahead.

“Yuuri, I’m sorry for upsetting you,” Viktor says. “I shouldn’t have pushed, I should have realized how anxious you were about moving. I know you’re angry, but—”

“Wait, _I’m_ angry?”

“Aren’t you?”

Yuuri blinks. “Viktor, do you think I’m here to fight with you?”

“…yes?” Viktor bites his lip. “You wouldn’t avoid me if you were mad, right?”

“Why would I be mad at you?” Yuuri shakes his head. “I came to apologize.”

He reaches out, tentatively, for Viktor’s hand. Viktor lets him take it; the ring on his finger gleams like it’s brand new. Yuuri remembers the bottle of jewelry polish on Viktor’s nightstand and almost smiles.

“I shouldn’t have ignored you or snapped at you.” He looks down at his lap. “I was anxious. I am anxious. But I could have just asked you to back off, instead of being a dick about it.”

“I should have known. I’m not very good at helping you.”

 _“I’m_ not even good at helping me half the time.”

When he looks up, Viktor is smiling. Yuuri squeezes his hand; Viktor squeezes back.

“I didn’t know if you would really come.”

“What?”

Viktor looks down at their clasped hands. “You wouldn’t talk to me. I thought maybe you had changed your mind, and were trying to—I wasn’t even supposed to come pick you up, but I couldn’t wait any longer. If you weren’t going to come I wanted to see it for myself.”

“Viktor—”

“People have always tired of me before. I thought maybe you had, too.”

Tired of him, like Viktor is an overplayed pop song. Yuuri has known Viktor for less than a year and feels like he’s barely scratched the surface of him. Viktor has facets like a diamond, depths like the ocean, miles of memories locked inside that Yuuri has yet to know. And even Viktor is revealing himself to Yuuri, piece by piece, he is changing; there will always be something new in him to know. Tire of him? Yuuri could never.

No wonder Viktor was so clingy when he arrived in Russia. He was afraid, afraid Yuuri would leave him, just as Yuuri was afraid Viktor wouldn’t want him anymore.

“I’m still scared,” he admits.

“Yuuri.” Viktor taps him on the nose. “How many figure skaters are good enough to compete on the international level?”

“What?”

“Almost everyone gets married, but almost no one is a competitive figure skater. Are you really telling me being my fiance is harder than winning gold at the Grand Prix Final?”

When he puts it like that, Yuuri actually does feel better.

“Yes!”

Viktor clearly didn’t expect that answer, because he gapes at Yuuri for a moment before pouting. “Fine, let’s just elope now! Then you can focus on skating.”

Well, that answers the question of whether Viktor was serious about them being engaged. They’re engaged. They’re very engaged. Which is what Yuuri wanted—what Yuuri meant—but not what he actually thought he would get. How strange this is, still—asking for impossible things, and being given them.

“We’re not eloping.” Yuuri pronounces the word with great discomfort. “We’re having a real wedding. After I win gold against you.”

“Oh? In that case, I should get back to practice.” Viktor points to where Yakov looks like he’s about to have a stress-induced heart attack. “Hopefully I won’t embarrass myself by falling in front of you again.”

It sounds like a joke. Viktor looks like he’s joking. But there’s something in his eyes, and Yuuri, in a flash of insight, realizes that Viktor acting like he isn’t nervous about skating does not necessary mean he is so. If it were Yuuri, he’d want to be encouraged, to be told he could do well, but that doesn’t feel right for Viktor. Viktor has a realistic understanding of his own abilities, and Yuuri, or so he has been told, does not.

“Viktor, if you fell out of every jump for the rest of your life, I would still love you.”

Viktor’s mouth moves soundlessly. Yuuri wonders if anyone has ever given Viktor permission to skate badly.

Viktor is halfway out of his seat, frozen. Then he pounces and Yuuri is caught in his arms before he has time to react; he presses his red face into Viktor’s warm shoulder and says nothing. Viktor holds him; he holds Viktor.

“My Yuuri,” he says. “Don’t take your eyes off me.”

“I never have,” Yuuri tells him, because it’s true. “I’m here now.”

He lets go. Then he frowns, and drapes his track jacket over Yuuri’s shoulders against the cold. Yuuri is left alone in the bleachers as Viktor descends the steps and lets Yakov usher him back onto the ice.

He watches Viktor skate for the rest of the afternoon. A few of the Russian skaters approach him, and between their English and his rudimentary Russian, they manage small talk. Yakov stops by to give him Viktor’s (alarmingly busy) training schedule. A few of the staff point at him, like he is a novelty, and Yuuri is hideously aware of the gold glitter his ass is leaving on the plastic seat.

When night finally falls, Viktor comes back for him.

“Ready to go?”

“Getting there,” Yuuri says wryly. “Tell me about your programs on the way home?”

Viktor’s smile could outshine the stars. Yuuri holds his hand all the way back to the apartment, and after they have eaten, and showered, and Yuuri is tucked into bed with Viktor, Viktor spooned up behind him with his breath hot over Yuuri’s hair, he thinks.

He still doesn’t know if this will work out. If he’s capable of making it work out. But Viktor is so warm, and the promise of gold glints in his dreams, and if Yuuri could go from sixth to second from season to season, perhaps he will lie awake this time next winter and think of all the reasons he made the right decision.

“Viktor?”

“Yuuri?”

“Why did you unpack all my stuff?”

“You hate unpacking.” Viktor yawns so loudly his jaw cracks. “You told me so in China. You said it was the worst thing about moving to Detroit because it made you ten times more anxious about being judged by your new roommates.” He presses a kiss to Yuuri’s hair. “Besides, this way I got to throw out that awful tie.”

“Viktor!”

“I’ll buy you a new one. Five new ones.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Yuuri.” Viktor curls in even closer. “Remind me tomorrow to buy milk? We’re out.”

They are both asleep before Yuuri can respond.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment! thanks to everyone who betaed for me


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